


Paws and Repeat

by Batastic_Grayson



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Healing, Heavy Angst, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Multi, Nightmares, Past Rape/Non-con, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, Rape, Service Animals, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:56:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16903065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batastic_Grayson/pseuds/Batastic_Grayson
Summary: Jason Todd isn't in denial that he has PTSD, he just...isn't ready to deal with it yet. But when his nightmares lead to him unintentionally injuring Dick, he knows something has to change. Bruce suggests a service animal, and although Jason might not like to admit it, this dog might be his last hope.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains strong triggers for rape/non-con, abuse, and anxiety disorders. I also will take some liberties with how I portray Jason's service dog in the future, so it may not be completely accurate to how actually service animals are distributed. Please know this is only for the ease of storyline/continuity. Much love and respect to service animals and their human partners. I hope Jason and his dog can accurately represent the close relationship you share.
> 
> I do not own DC or their characters. I do own this story! Thanks for reading.

**_Jason_ **

_I can feel the sweat drifting over my skin in small finger strokes, each droplet from his brow falling like a splotch of ink on my skin. My own blood is twisting in paint strokes on the warehouse floor, mingling with dust and pine shavings. He says the setting is everything. That without a good canvas, no amount of workmanship will make a masterpiece. He tells me repeatedly that I look so pretty draped on the floor, so innocent…I can’t help but thinking how different his definition of pretty is from mine._

_I’m naked. Bound by my wrists to a support beam and turned over on my stomach. I’m riddled with injuries, so thoroughly covered in various aging bruises, cuts, and burns that I think I must look like a patchwork quilt. A boy, barely sewn together. The floor is like ice on my skin, so cold everywhere it touches it feels raw, but his skin is hot against mine like—fire, tingling fire crawling under my skin and slivering beneath my fingernails. His heat brings pain, the indescribable kind that makes me twist and squirm, makes me moan to escape and weep when it won’t stop. He murmurs breathless words in my ear, hands holding my hair from behind like reins._

_It’s always this way when he decides to have me. His hands twisting tighter against my scalp, the scent of blood like copper in the air, his breath heavy against the nape of my neck. He’ll tell me how gorgeous I look, how if I just behave it will stop and maybe he’ll be gentler next time if I learned to hold my tongue. Maybe daddy will come this time to save me. Maybe daddy would like to watch?_

_Sometimes, I’m paralyzed with pain and fear. My muscles turn to stone, and my spine arches in soundless agony. I take the invasion of him inside me, take the blood and bone crushing into me, and I wait for it to end. Sometimes it does. Sometimes he climbs off me, only to begin again._

_This time, he doesn’t seem completely satisfied with his normal routine. I feel his fingers, iron on my hips when he turns me over, and I’m abruptly face to face with a set of yellowed teeth looming over me in a smile. Eyes like coal, so very dark I disappear inside them, take me in like a feast, and he draws in a deep, panting sigh._

_“This is much better isn’t it? I can see those darling green eyes of yours now.”_

_I growl, arching away from him when he draws close, but his hands clasp my jaw in a vice. I’m forced to stomach the unwanted presence of his lips grinding into mine, and when he tries to slip a tongue past my teeth, I bite down hard enough to taste blood. It has the desired effect of making him draw back with a hiss, but it also serves to arouse him further._

_His eyes spark with yellow embers, and he spits a mouthful of blood off to the side. His gaze slides back to mine, mischievous and sinister, “Tut tut, little boy. No biting or I’ll rip the teeth out of that pretty head, hmm?”_

_I bare my teeth in a scowl, yanking my wrists hard against the bindings behind me. It isn’t the first time I’ve considered mutilating my hands to free myself, and it doesn’t take much motivation for me to start considering it again. He loves to punish me for my missteps and he certainly won’t fail me after the bite. He makes a point of going in fast this time, no warning, no time to brace or relax, and a keening scream comes tearing out of my lips before I can smother it. My entire pelvis and abdomen ignite with fire, and the sensation of tearing is so acute I see dots speckling my vision like television fuzz._

_This only serves to make my desperation to escape more intense. I begin tearing on my bindings like an animal, cutting into my skin so deep I think I might be scraping bone. But I can’t stop. His pace is increasing, and with each movement, I feel more and more like I’m going to tear in two. Blood runs hot on my thighs, wetting the pavement beneath us, but he doesn’t stop either. It excites him more than perhaps even my screams can._

_I eventually, finally, blessedly feel my thumbs give way with a slight pop. It’s a mere blip compared to the white burning in my stomach. A glance to his face tells me he’s too immersed in pleasure to notice the sound, and I pull my hands from the bindings roughly. His eyes have fallen shut, a sick grin twisting his mouth into an ugly sneer, it’s a moment of pure victory when I throw him from me._

_It’s perhaps two seconds more before I’m straddling him, my fists striking his face again and again and again. He fights back, better than I remember being him capable of, but I’m beyond fighting fair. I pin him with my weight, working my elbow into his jaw until his skin splits and weeps red. He screams for help. From who? I can’t say._

_But eventually he loosens beneath me from exhaust, and I use the lapse to wrap both my hands around his throat. I begin squeezing, so hard I feel like I might crush his windpipe, but I want him to suffer. I want him to remember this._

_He claws at my hands, fingernails cutting into my skin as he begs me to release him. He’s mouthing something, choking as his skin starts to turn a shade of deep purple. I hiss, clenching his throat tighter. Those eyes, dark eyes like a snake’s never leave mine. They remain staring, pleading, begging. Mercy, please, mercy. You’re making a mistake. Please. Please Jason._

_But those eyes…they—they look lighter than before. Are they black? They should be black. They should be so dark I could drown in them, devoid of light. But they look…they look blue. They look pale now, so pale they rival the sky. They’re washed with tears. I don’t understand. Why are his eyes blue? Why is he crying? Why—_

 

Hands grip me around my stomach, yanking me off of Joker’s form. I’m surprised when it’s Bruce’s voice in my ear, telling me to stop. Even more surprised when I look back at the figure and find that it’s Dick laying there unconscious.

 

**_Bruce_ **

****

I hear the screams first. They’re desperate cries for help from just down the hall, and I’m jolting out of bed before they’ve made it past their second syllable. I recognize the voice immediately as Dick’s, and it sends a bolt of fear quivering through my middle to hear the terror in his voice. I haven’t heard him sound like this since he was a little boy.

Drawing nearer to Jason and Dick’s end of the hallway, I can hear the sounds of a struggle, the quiet wail of someone struggling for breath, the streams of curses muttered beneath tongues. I don’t prepare myself for what might be waiting inside Jason’s room, the source of the commotion, like I should. I do what instinct demands of me, and I burst into the room without preamble.

The last thing I expected to find was Dick laying half-unconscious beneath Jason, throat locked between his brother’s hands in a fierce stranglehold. I rush forward just in time to watch Dick’s head loll to the side as he loses consciousness, his color frighteningly grey, and it’s all I can do to grip Jason around the stomach and pull him off by sheer force.

“Jason, stop!”

He doesn’t let go easily. He’s heavy and bent on murder, but I’m eventually able to tear him away. I’m not surprised when his bottle green eyes clear of the fog and the rage marking his brow quickly devolves into confusion. At the sight of Dick’s body though, twisted and bleeding in the sheets, his color drains to wax and he stumbles back away from us.  

He blinks rapidly, panic twisting his features sharply, “I…I thought he was…”

I ignore him, leaving him at the end of the bed as I push to Dick’s side. I press my fingers to his pulse, testing the weak beating their and probing the swollen skin of his throat delicately. I watch the thrum of his chest for a moment, immensely relieved when breath still flows in and out, albeit in rattling, thin wisps.

Jason’s presence at my back is a muted combination of horror and shame, and I glance over my shoulder to find him still frozen at the end of the bed, green eyes wide. His mouth parts around words, closes, parts again and settles on a whispered, “Is he…”

I give a brief nod, “He’s alive, but you were _seconds_ away from killing him.” I press a thumb to the intercom a few feet from the bed, “Alfred, we need medical attention in Jason’s bedroom stat.”

I turn more fully now, working to control the flare of irrational anger that’s battering at my ribcage. I keep my tone level when I look up to Jason again. “What the hell happened, Jason? And I want the truth. Not half-baked, not abridged. The whole goddamn truth. Now.”

“I…I didn’t…I didn’t mean to. I just…I thought he was…” He struggles through stilting sentences, and it’s now that I’m looking at him more carefully that I see the tremble in his frame, the sweat soaking his skin, the blown disks of his pupils from fear. It becomes abundantly clear the longer he stutters that he’s just suffered a night terror, and a nasty one it sounds like. I’ve seen them before, but never this bad, never this violent.

There’s only one person that could inspire than kind of terror.

“You had a dream.” A small nod, shame bracketing his mouth with deep lines.

I inhale a soft breath, feeling the anger drain from me. He looks so small right now, so frightened of everything and everyone. It makes me ache in a way I haven’t in a long time. It’s a pain unique to fatherhood, and one I have experienced more than I’d like to.

 “You thought he was Joker.”

Jason nods sharply, and I can see that the shaking is becoming more intense. He’s starting to shiver, his shoulders closing in as he works through a response, his eyes filmy with unspent tears. I pull in a deep breath, something grounding for us both, and not knowing how else to put him back together, I take a step forward and I draw him into my arms. I hold him tightly, like he’s a porcelain doll about to fall apart, hold him tight enough I can protect him from his own mind. It’s all I know to do.

His hands grip the back of my shirt roughly, and his too-big frame cowers into me, the sounds of a deep, wrenching sob issuing from him like a plea. He hasn’t clung to me like this since he was a child, and the sight of him so utterly destroyed makes me want to hide him from his pain, his memories. I just keep him pressed into me as he weeps, listening to the repetitive beat of his words as he murmurs, again and again, “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

I press circles in his back, I kiss his sweaty hair, and I whisper, again and again, “It’s alright, Jason. We’re here now. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

This mantra seems to calm him after a few minutes, and he eventually draws back with a shuddered breath, swiping the heels of his palms under his eyes. Our gazes lock for a moment, and much that can’t be said is exchanged. Apologies and explanations, wishes for something different. Regret and remorse and fear. Pain. We don’t speak, but we say much just looking at one another.

Jason’s eyes flicker to Dick. He’s still unconscious. “Are you sure he’s going to be alright?”

I nod, “He’ll be fine, Jason. A little worse for the wear…but fine.”

The silence stretches for a moment, and I watch the motion of the door as Alfred slips in almost unnoticed. I can see the shapes of the other two boys waiting in the hall, whispering with wide, worried expressions. Alfred shuts the door behind him and is at Dick’s side in an instant, silently tending to his wounds and checking his condition, all while clad in a bathrobe and slippers. He doesn’t ask what happened, nor do I bother explaining. There is time for that come morning.

Both Jason and I stay until Dick is conscious and responsive. We help move him to his own bed, and Dick spares no time in trying to ease Jason’s conscience. He offers apologies for coming into his room to check on him and says he “had it coming”. Jason is unaffected by the optimism, and in fact, looks as drained as a worn-out washcloth.

It’s when Alfred and Dick are discussing scheduling a visit to the reconstructive dentist that Jason attempts to leave quietly. I catch him at the doorway with a hand, “Jason…”

He turns slightly, but his eyes are smudged with shadows. He looks like a ghost of himself, grey and weak. I decide to delay the obvious conversation until tomorrow, and so I simply say, “We’ll talk in the morning, alright? Get some sleep.”

Jason nods, but his eyes don’t register that he heard me. He slips into his own room quietly, adjoined to Dick’s, without saying goodnight. I hear the lock turn behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Jason_ **

****

I stay in bed until the sun starts to spread long through the gap in the curtains. No one disturbs me for the most part, save the two times when Dick tentatively knocks on the door adjoining our rooms. I ignore him on both occasions, and he leaves with a heavy sigh and a promise to check on me later. I know I’ll eventually have to speak with him and assuage my own guilt by apologizing again for almost killing him. But not yet. I don’t have the energy for that kind of discussion yet.

                I’ve mostly been trying to piece myself together again. Nightmares like last night’s aren’t as uncommon as I’d like them to be, and they usually leave me destroyed for a day, sometimes two. I’ll frequently be relegated to a dark room where I work through a few panic attacks an hour until I slowly start to come back to reality and the dissociation lessens. I don’t eat, I don’t sleep. I just try to breathe, try to feel a little bit more human.

                It’s not much of a surprise when I hear the soft tapping at my door again, this time on the one that joins the hallway. I expect it to be Dick, and I’m not too disturbed when I eventually hear the hands on the other side of the door pick the lock and the hinges swing inwards with a slight creak. I’m curled onto my side, head buried beneath the blankets. I don’t bother rolling over to greet Dick, nor do I acknowledge him when I hear the faint clatter of something being laid at the foot of the bed. It’s probably food Alfred will insist that I eat.

                I feel the bed dip beneath his weight as he sits, and to my surprise, it’s not Dick who murmurs my name, but Bruce. “Jason.”

                Now that’s unusual. Bruce usually gives me my space when I’ve had a night like last’s, and usually I appreciate it. I like that he respects my desire to be alone, and oftentimes, it makes me more ready to speak when he lets me come to him and not the other way around. But today feels different, and I know it as much as he does. I’m more fragile, and I don’t have the ability to go to him if I needed to. I’m tired, weak as a newborn kitten, and definitely not capable of helping myself.

                So when he says my name again, and I feel his hand squeeze my shoulder gently through the comforter, a bubble of something painful and warm wedges itself in my throat. It’s gratitude and that special kind of relief that a parent elicits. I keep my head tucked under the blankets, unspeaking. I’m afraid that if I try to say anything, I might cry again, and last night was certainly humiliating enough without adding another sob session to the roster.

                Bruce sighs and the mattress dips again as he moves closer. His hand has started smoothing circles into my shoulder. “You should eat something, bud. It’s close to three.”

                When I say nothing again, Bruce draws in another breath. His hand drops from my shoulder to the bedspread. I can hear him picking at a loose string there for a few moments, and the sound is oddly comforting. Eventually, he murmurs, “Look, I know you don’t want to, but we need to talk.”

                I tuck into a tighter ball to protect my stomach, feeling a sharp stab of dread poke at my abdomen. I’m cold again. I know it’s not the actual temperature of the room, but I feel like I could start shivering at any moment. Maybe it’s the knowledge that Bruce might want to have me committed for last night’s events…maybe it’s because I might agree with him.

                How safe can it be to keep me in the house with everyone else? What if I slip into a dissociative state and I forget where I am? What if my eyes don’t see Damian or Tim or Alfred, but Joker? What if I hurt someone again, or worse, kill them? I could’ve killed Dick last night if Bruce hadn’t pulled me off him. I would’ve.

                I shudder, and my voice sounds raspy from disuse when I reply. “Where are you sending me?”

                “What do you mean?”

                I turn slightly, uncoiling from my ball enough to angle in his direction. “Where are you sending me? Belle Reve? Arkham? Something more private?”

                There’s a beat of hesitation that makes my stomach cramp before Bruce’s hand is back on my shoulder, squeezing firmly. “You’re not a criminal, Jason. I’m not sending you anywhere.”

                My next breath is unsteady, wobbly with emotion I can’t seem to control. “But I _am_ sick…and I hurt someone.”

                “It was an accident.”

                “I could do it again. Next time you might not be there in time to stop me.”

                “That’s not going to happen.”

                I pull the covers down enough so that I can see him, and I find that his eyes are like pale moonlight. He’s dressed in jeans and a grey sweater, one socked foot tucked under him while the other dangles off the side of the bed. His expression is drawn and worried, like he’s been trying to solve an unsolvable puzzle all day, but he doesn’t look panicked. He looks certain and level. It reassures me in a way I can’t explain.

                I swallow with a bit of difficulty, hands clenching the comforters, “You can’t be sure of that, B. What if next time it’s Damian or…or Alfred? What if I start sleep walking like I did as a kid?” I shake my head vigorously, the lump in my throat growing larger as I grate out a whispered, “I can’t hurt someone I love again…I—I need you to send me somewhere I can’t hurt anyone, okay? Somewhere you can keep the family safe from me.”

                “Jason…” He says my name softly, almost like a prayer it’s so quiet, and I have to look down when I feel his hand dip to stroke back my hair. It’s a purely paternal gesture, one I’m not accustomed to, and I don’t have the emotional stamina to hide my feelings today. Tears are far too quick to rise to my eyes, clouding my vision until the image of my comforter swims in blurry shades of blue and green.

                Bruce draws in a soft breath, fingertips still carding through my hair repetitively. “I am not going to send you away, Jason. I would never do something like that unless it was the absolute best thing for you…and being away from us, _your_ family, right now would not be the best thing for you.” A pause, a hesitation, another deeply drawn breath, “However…”

                Just what I was waiting for. I prepare for the worst, keeping my eyes averted.

                Bruce must sense my tension, because he proceeds cautiously, his voice carefully calm. “However, we can’t keep going like this, Jason…pretending like there’s nothing wrong, like nothing’s changed. You’re right, you _are_ sick and we _do_ need to get you help.” I feel him lift a shoulder next to me. He’s gone back to picking at the string on the bedspread. “That’ll mean counseling, medication, support groups…all the things we’ve been avoiding.”

                Suspicion prickles like a cool ice cube on the nape of my neck. “Why do I sense a _but_ in there?”

                He shifts next to me. I can already tell he’s going to say something I won’t like, because his expression is deceptively calm, a curated mask with the sole intention of easing me. It only makes me more tense.

                “I’ve spoken with Alfred. He has experience with PTSD, especially after serving overseas…and he suggested a service animal for you. I agree with him.”

                I blink up at him, feeling like I’ve missed the mark when I repeat slowly, “A service animal…”

                Bruce nods, brows lifting optimistically, “Yes. There are animals trained to assist those who have PTSD and other stress disorders. Both Alfred and I think a companion could help you if you suffer an attack at home, or especially in public.” He shrugs, “A dog could alert us when—”

                I lift both hands, sitting up abruptly, “Woah, a _dog_?”

                “Yes, a dog. That’s a relatively common service animal, Jason.”

                “I don’t need a dog.”

                Bruce arches both brows now, and I see that familiar bite back of stubbornness in his gaze, cool like iron, “I beg to differ. So does Alfred.”

                I scoff, feeling cornered and surprisingly defensive, “But B…a dog? I don’t even like dogs.”

                “You’ll learn to love them, I expect. Most people who have service animals become very attached to theirs.”

                A scowl marks my brow, and I can hear how nasty I sound, how biting my tone is when I hiss, “I’m not _disabled_. I don’t need a fucking dog.”

                Bruce’s expression remains steady, and that’s shaming enough without the added burn of his words. “You suffer attacks almost daily, so crippling in nature that often you can’t even leave the house. Now that is extending into your sleep with increasing frequency. That, by very definition, is a disability, Jason. Whether you like the term or not.”

                I flush with anger and shame in equal parts, trying to find a decent way to express my feelings without sounding so petulant. I manage irritated silence, and Bruce is forced to be the one to break it with a weary sort of sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, expression softening again.

                “Look, Jason, I’m not doing this to make your life miserable or to make you feel _disabled_. I’m doing this because you need help that I can’t give to you. Medications and therapy can only do so much. I think you need some _one_ helping you dig out of this.”

                I force a stabilizing breath, grateful when the anger starts to fade from my vision and Bruce’s image regains its softness. My voice sounds more level, more adult, when I say, “I just…I fail to see how a dog is going to help me.”

                “Well, for one, a dog could alert one of us if you have an attack in public that leaves you vulnerable. It can help ground you before an attack even happens, get you somewhere safe. Remind you to eat and breathe. Wake you up before a nightmare becomes too strong…” Bruce shuffles a hand through his hair, frowning down to the string he’s still picking at. “And for another thing…it’ll give _me_ some peace of mind, knowing you aren’t alone all the time. Knowing someone is protecting you when I can’t.”

                We lapse into silence for several moments after this, still sitting on the bed, watching one another think. Bruce’s expression shifts so easily when he’s not trying to guard it, and it’s not hard to see how worried he is. Shadows smudge beneath his eyes even in slivers of afternoon sunlight, and his eyes are a color that breathes of sadness. His gaze skates over me in the pained sort of way one does when looking at something wounded. It’s empathy, it’s grace, it’s the color blue. There’s something undoing about the way he looks at me, how his eyes beg me to listen. Just this once. For him.

                It becomes even clearer that he’s asking me to do this, if not for me, then him, when he takes in a belly-deep breath and sighs. “Please. Just try.”

               Bruce doesn’t like to plead. He doesn’t like the vulnerability of asking for things, which is why he demands so often. But I can see that he’s willing to let me say no to this. He’d respect it, even. He would let me refuse this if I really wanted it, because he respects me. After all these years of pushing each other, the tide against the immovable beach, we’ve come to respect each other. To honor the wishes of one another, even if they’re inconvenient or painful. It’s been a hard-won sort of love. The kind that’s even more precious than the easy variety.

               I want to say no. I want to tell him that I don’t like dogs. That I don’t need help from an animal. That I can do it myself. But then an image of Dick’s poor, battered face flashes through my mind, and it cripples my arguments. I think of the times in public when I have to stay in the bathroom for hours because I’ve seen someone with a purple coat or smelled a flash of sweat from a stranger. I think of how I’m incapacitated for days by fear, how I haven’t slept through the night in years. How I live from attack to attack, just trying to pretend I’m alright.

               For once, I’m willing to admit that Bruce is right. I need help. And maybe…just maybe, this could be that help.

               “Fine. I’m not gonna pretend I’m happy about it…but I’ll try.”

               Bruce’s expression clears for a moment into unfettered relief, and it’s almost enough to make agreeing to this seem like the easy choice. Almost.

               Bruce doesn’t say anything further on the topic. I think he senses that a begrudging promise to try is the best he’ll get, because he leans to the end of the bed and retrieves the tray he brought in with him. His posture is easier when he passes the tray stacked with food to my lap and climbs from the bed to go open the curtains.

               Unsurprisingly, Alfred has prepared a few of my favorites, probably to entice me to eat if I had been particularly stubborn. Chocolate chip pancakes, macaroni and cheese, even some strips of bacon. Tea with honey, naturally. Three ibuprofen and a multivitamin.

               I take the pills with a gulp of tea, pleased when I taste the slight kick of bourbon that Alfred must’ve splashed in with the honey. It’s a moment more before Bruce returns to sit next to me on the bed again, having opened the curtains to let some light in. He takes one of the chocolate chip pancakes wordlessly, tearing little pieces off with his fingers and popping them in his mouth like popcorn. He doesn’t ask either when he steals a piece of my bacon and we eat together in silence. He probably hasn’t eaten today either. He rarely does when he’s stressed.

               When he takes a sip of the tea, he only offers a lifted a brow and a slight chuckle. I doubt Alfred told him he was adding a little something to the tea. I am still, technically, underage…but the old butler has never stood upon the law when it comes to treating his patients. If he thinks bourbon is needed…well, who are we to argue?

               Eventually, the tray empties and the tea drains. We settle back into the headboard, leaning our shoulders together wordlessly. It’s always like this when we share a “moment”. If we say something about it, the magic seems to shatter, like a clock striking midnight. So we don’t say anything. We just sit together, watching the sunlight painting my room in orange and yellow beams. Occasionally, his hand reaches to squeeze mine tightly, and whatever fear I was harboring goes skittering away again.

               The mantle clock strikes another hour, the angle of light changes again. I get up to open a window, letting some fresh air in to dispel the atmosphere of sick. We take up books from the shelf lining the far wall and we read together for another few hours. Alfred leaves more food at the doorway and eventually Dick finds his way in, looking ragged, but warm all the same. He lisps a few apologies between broken teeth, hugs me too tight, and then he squeezes on the other side of me when the sun dips below the horizon. We turn on a movie together. It’s a corny film from the nineties about a whale. Dick cries. Bruce and I exchange smiling looks.

               When Dick falls asleep next to me in a heap of limbs and drool, we don’t bother moving him. It’s unspoken that they’re not going to leave me alone, and I don’t have the pride tonight to insist on it. So, we leave a lamp on and I tuck myself into the comforters between he and Bruce. Dick winds around me like a chimpanzee and Bruce keeps his shoulder tucked tight into mine. I’m surrounded by warmth and limbs and drowsy snores. The fear feels far away with them so close.

               We don’t say anything except a whispered goodnight, but it’s enough.

               I sleep better than I have in years.


End file.
